


Noli Timere

by QueenForADay



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, And Will Is NOT Having It, Blasphemy, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Full Of Artists and Writers, Getting Together, Hannibal Has A Harem, Hannibal Lecter Being Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter is a Tease, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Historical References, I Will Come For The Institution Of The Church, Jealous Will Graham, Jealousy, Kinda, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Renaissance Era, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Will Graham, a ward of the Crawford family and a budding writer, is offered patronage by a wealthy Florentine Doctor.At the same time, the capital is being haunted by Il Mostro, and Jack Crawford is called back by the Medici's to investigate.Noli Timere [Latin]: "Do Not Be Afraid".





	1. Chapter 1

High summer is finally beginning to settle over Florence. As the sun starts its slow climb over the horizon, the early morning air starts to thicken and grow heavy.

Will wakes with the sun; as does most of the villa. Outside his bedroom window – left open to welcome chilly and fresh night air – he can hear the labourers and farmers grab their tools and equipment for the day. They call out to each other, pairing up to start their trek out into the sprawling fields surrounding the villa. Gifted to the _Signor_ and _Signora_ Crawford almost fifteen years ago, it isn’t the largest in the province, but it’s large enough to warrant a significant staff of caretakers.

Will is one of them. Given to the Crawford’s as a child, he’s been their charge for a number of years. He has spent more time within the Crawford’s villa than in his old home. While under their guardianship, he’s allowed to take up lodging within the main house. But that would mean being shadowed by tutors, crowing about the newest movement of thinking and art to flower out of the capital. That would mean having to entertain the guests that sometimes grave the villa with their presence. And while _Signor_ Crawford is no more favourable to hosting such guests, at least he _does_ make an effort to be civil. Will doesn’t. He prefers to keep to himself. So instead of living within the main house of the villa, he hides himself away in one of the smaller farmhand houses: a simple, sandstone structure standing at two stories. The three other people living within the house are happy for him to stay within the loft, claiming it as his own space, letting books and writing fill the already small space.

He manages to wrangle himself out of bed. With the farmhands already starting their shifts, he’ll be expected to join them out in the fields. Normally, when the weather would be cooler, he would already be outside. Vine fruit and grapes need to be gathered. Fallow fields will need to be inspected for future sewing. With high summer only now beginning to settle over the province, there is still quite an amount of work to be done.

They’re to receive visitors. The _Conte_ and _Contessa_ Lecter. Will has wracked his brain through the night, trying to recall if he’s ever stumbled across their names in the past. He might have heard of them in passing, but he’s certain that they’ve never been to the villa. Still, it didn’t stop the _Signor_ calling Will to dinner last night and announcing that they were en route.

 _The Lecters are from old money_ , he said, glowering down at his plate. Will wordlessly picked at his own food, preferring to keep his head low. _I don’t know why they’re coming, but they’re coming._

It must be for something important. That’s all Will managed to think of during the night. The Lecter siblings are close to the Medici’s within the capital. To the best of Will’s knowledge, he’s sure that the elder sibling, Hannibal, is the Medici’s personal physician.

A small window looks out on to the nearby stables. Horses are tethered outside, being painstakingly washed, brushed, and re-shoed. Others are led into their stalls by their groomers. He spots a couple of men he’s never seen in a while – now suddenly down on their hands and knees scrubbing at the tiles of the stable floor.

 _Just how influential are the Conte and Contessa_? Will thinks. _It’s not like the Medici’s themselves are coming_.

There’s a gentle rap on his door. He pulls on some plain black breeches, his boots, and a shirt that he tucks into his breeches. The collar he leaves slightly open. The air is already heavy with heat. Even with the bare minimum of clothes on, sweat starts to bead along his spine.

He clears the room in a matter of strides. Peter – one of the _Signor_ ’s stable hands – stands in the centre of the hallway, fidgeting with his hands. The man drops his gaze to the ground. “The, the _Signora_ wants to, to see you.”

Will offers the man a small smile. “Thank you, Peter.” The man glances up for a moment, but scurries back down the narrow hallway of the loft. The other three men within the house have long gone. They’re probably down in the vineyard by now. He doesn’t meet anyone on his way out of the house, or even on his way up towards the villa. He spots labourers carrying wicker baskets on their hips and backs, and watches as they trudge on down towards the fields. Even with half of the estate set on polishing it clean, work still needs to be done.

The main villa is a large, sprawling house. It was built at the start of the renaissance, and has had countless renovations since then. The previous owners of the house had a large brood of sons and daughters, and needed the space: space that a family like the Crawford’s – just the Signor, the Signora, and arguably, Will – don’t need. Only a couple of rooms within the house are used, either by themselves or the house staff that bustle around inside. A couple of them sweep pass Will as he steps inside the villa. A cool breeze blows through, thanks to a couple of open windows.

He finds the _Signora_ in the main dining room of the house. The long, wooden table is already prepped with ceramic plates, cloths, and cutlery. Flower arrangements and small sculptures adorn the centre of the table. Will clears his throat. “Peter said that you wanted to see me?”

Bella wears a nice dress. It’s a deep purple, with white and gold accents around the neckline, corset, and sleeves. It’s something that he knows she hates. An academic by trade, she spends most of her days in simple linen shifts, taken in slightly at the waist. She glances over to him, but quickly turns back to speaking to one of the cooks. “Something simple to start with,” she says. “But the main courses should be large. The _Conte_ and _Contessa_ will have been travelling for a long time.”

The cook nods, and is gone out of the room within a matter of seconds. Bella finally turns to face him. “Yes, Will,” she gathers her breath. She looks at him, running her eyes up and down his body. She gives a curt nod. “Those will do, I suppose,” she mumbles, striding over to him. She reaches out, gently pushing curls of hair back from Will’s face. “You really should get that cut.”

“It’s fine, _Signora_ ,” he says, tilting his head back.

Her hands drop to her sides. “I’m sorry,” she sighs. Bella tries to clasp her hands in front of her, just above where the skirt of her dress comes out in a flair. But her hands twitch. She twirls her wedding band around her finger.

“I’ve never seen you this nervous over a guest before,” Will says lowly, reaching out to take her hands in his. Those were the hands to show him how to hold a quill, and how to let flowing prose stream out of him and on to a page. Even now, her hands seem so much bigger in his own. They’ve worn over the years, but her touch is still soft.

Bella offers him a small, but tired, smile. “Jack knew them when we lived in Florence,” she says, turning to walk over to the table. She fidgets with some of the flowers, rearranging them to catch some of the morning light streaming into the room. “The _Conte_ used to tend to Jack whenever he got harmed on duty.”

Will nods. The _Signor_ had been the captain of the guard within Florence for a number of years. That’s where this villa came from: a gift to Jack when he decided that he was getting too old for Florentine criminals. That’s why he can afford to keep a villa like this standing even after fifteen years.

Will looks around the room. “Do you need help with anything?”

She sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her face. “No, thank you, Will. I’m sure that everything has been sorted.”

 

* * *

 

 

A guard informs them when the Lecters’ carriage enters the gates of the estate. They still have a long, cobblestone path to drive up through, but still, everyone falls into place. House staff preen their uniforms and hair.

Will is made to stand with Jack and Bella. He can’t help the small sigh that escapes his nose as they wait patiently for the carriage to come into view. Bella nudges him with the crook of her elbow. _Be civil._

A carriage, drawn by four immaculately groomed horses, trots into view. The two to the front throw their heads back, but are set straight by the driver. The carriage rounds the circular courtyard at the front of the house. It eventually comes to a halt in front of the sandstone steps that lead up towards the villa.

No one moves a muscle. A stillness has fallen over the entire estate – from the house all the way down to the fields on the horizon. Will listens: even the birds have fallen silent.

The driver of the carriage is the first to move. An aged man with hunched shoulders and white hair, he gets down from his seat and walks towards the main carriage. He pulls the door open with minimal difficulty. A man steps out – far, far younger than the driver, but still older than Will. He watches the other man: his hair is cropped short, and dressed in Florentine fashion.

A quiet _thank you_ is directed at the driver before the man turns his attention to the people standing up on the steps. The driver disappears around the carriage, opening the door at the other side.

Jack is the first from their side to move. He strides forward towards the man, eventually opening his arms. “Old friend,” he smiles.  The two men embrace for a moment. As Will watches, he registers Bella moving forward.

“‘Old’ is the right word for it,” the other man mirrors the smile. He turns, revealing a woman rounding the carriage, arm-in-arm with the carriage driver. “Do you remember my sister, Mischa?”

The woman – who looks shockingly similar to the man – offers her hand. Jack takes it and presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles. The woman smiles and inclines her head slightly.

“ _Contessa_ ,” Bella curtsies.

The woman returns it. “ _Signora_.”

Jack looks over towards Will. He beckons at him to join. “This is my ward, William,” he tells the man.

By the time Will has reached the gathering, the man’s eyes are scrutinising him.

“A ward,” the man hums. “Forgive me, but you do look far too old to be a ward.”

Jack looks to him: a silent permission to speak.

“I was given to the _Signor_ and _Signora_ when I was a child. I’ve lived here ever since.” Will drops his gaze to the ground between them.

It’s something the man seems to notice. “Not fond of eye-contact, are you?”

“Eyes are distracting,” he says, looking up, but throwing his gaze over the man’s shoulder. There are patterns of intricate, golden designs on the carriage for him to focus on instead. “You see too much, or don’t see enough; and it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, ‘oh, those whites are really white’, or ‘he must have yellow fever’, or ‘is that a burst vein?’ So, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

A smile creeps along the man’s lips. The woman by his side turns her head, just so, to avoid showing the broader smile that she wears. Jack gestures towards the villa. “Come, old friend,” he moves passed Will to lead them all up towards the house. “We have a dinner planned for you.”

Will stands to the side. They should enter the house by rank; Jack and Bella as the owners of the villa, the _Conte_ and _Contessa_ as the guests, despite being nobler than anyone else here. And then Will.

Just as the _Conte_ and _Contessa_ move past him, the woman’s smile grows as she manages to catch his eye.

 

* * *

 

 

The dinner is a multi-course affair. It begins with boards of cured meats, light and creamy cheeses, and fresh vine tomatoes that were only picked this morning. Vials of olive oil and balsamic vinegar are filled and refilled and placed by each person’s plate.

By the time the main course is brought out, Will glances to the lancet windows. The sun is starting its descent. Within a couple of hours, it will hide behind the nearby mountains. His fingers twitch. That’s when inspiration strikes.

The man, who he now knows as Hannibal, sits back in his chair. “Will,” he says, almost making the other jump out of his skin at finally being addressed. “Have you been educated?”

He quickly glances over towards Bella. Usually, she would speak for him. _Yes_ , she’d often say. _Will has had a collection of tutors from throughout the country_. Most of it is horseshit. Bella tutored Will personally, when it became apparent that outside tutors and Will didn’t always get along.

When it becomes apparent that Bella is leaving him to speak for himself, he merely nods. “The _Signor_ and _Signora_ provided tutors for me over the years.”

The man tilts his head. “Odd.” He turns to Bella. “I thought that you might have educated the boy yourself.”

 _He knows about her education?_ Will stops a frown from creasing his brow. Hannibal doesn’t seem perturbed by it. Of course, if he’s known the Crawfords for as long as he thinks, then Will doesn’t see _why_ he would have a problem with it. Others, in the past, have been...less accepting.

Bella nods. “I eventually did,” she amends. “Will didn’t take too well to having tutors around the house.”

At that, Hannibal smiles. He glances over to his sister, seated by his side. “Now, where have I heard something like that before?”

The woman – Mischa – scowls at her brother. “The tutors father plagued us with were droll old men who were altogether too uninteresting,” she says, taking a measured sip of wine. A scathing comment if ever Will heard one – but something that her brother brushes off with a light, lilting laugh.

The main dinner passes without much of a fuss. But there’s something in the air. Will bristles with each passing minute. More bread and vials are brought out. He gives a quick and quiet _thank you_ to the server who places them in front of him.

“Forgive me, old friend,” Jack starts. “I found myself wondering earlier today, before your arrival: is this a social visit? Or something else?”

Bella sighs. “Jack-”

Hannibal holds up his hand. “No, that’s quite alright Bella.” The man taps his fingers on the mahogany table. “We’re here on behalf of the Medici’s.”

Will drops his gaze. He wordlessly tears off a piece of bread before swiping it through some balsamic and olive oil. It’s a nice distraction from the oncoming storm that’s threatening to erupt.

Hannibal sets down his cutlery. “The current head of the guard – your replacement – was recently found outside the _Duomo_. Dead.”

Will lifts his gaze. The air around the table has thickened. Jack swallows around a mouthful of bread and cheese. “Dead?” he rasps.

Hannibal nods firmly. Something shadows across his face – something that is gone just as quickly as it appears. “His death is the latest in a series of murders that have been occurring within the city for almost a year now. The Medici’s want it solved.”

“No one within the guard wants to go anywhere near it,” Mischa explains. Her voice has changed. It’s not the lilting one that Will has gotten used to. It’s more sombre. Her accent – one shared with her brother – thickens. “The Medici’s even declared a reward for anyone who could apprehend the person doing it.”

Bella sits back in her chair. “This has been going on for a year?” Hannibal nods again. “Why hasn’t anything been done sooner?”

“We didn’t realise they were connected at first,” Mischa says.

Jack tilts his head. “Connected? In what way?”

“The bodies have been rearranged,” Mischa explains, clasping her hands together. “Some may say _displayed_.”

Bella brings her napkin to her mouth. “Someone has been ‘displaying’ bodies? Where?”

Hannibal gestures vaguely with his hand. “All over the city, in all sorts of places. Churches, townhouses, marketplaces. One was close enough to the _Palazzo Medici_ that Lorenzo called me to send for you.”

As Will keeps his eyes absolutely focused on the plate of food before him, his shoulders creep up towards his ears at the air within the room growing charged. The _Signor_ and _Conte_ speak to each other with such familiarity that it’s alarming. _They must go back years, then,_ Will thinks. He isn’t too familiar with the Signor’s life during his Florentine years, but he knows enough.

Apparently, everyone seems happy to let the conversation die on the table. The rest of the meal goes by silently.

 

* * *

 

 

Bella offered him a room within the villa. _I don’t like the idea of you sleeping out there_ , she said quietly, taking him aside when the dining table was being cleared. _And the Conte and Contessa shouldn’t know you sleep outside with the labourers._

 ** _They won’t see me._** Will stays awake for most of the night; only sleeping for a couple of hours before the sun rises.

Night has fallen over the villa. Most of the labourers have retired: exhausted and burnt from working underneath the high sun all day. Will’s heart clenches. He should have been out there with them, plucking at tomatoes and vine fruits.

When he gets back to the farmhouse, it’s deafeningly quiet. The three other men have turned in for the night. Their plates and bowls are still on the table: scraps of food still strewn about. Will sighs. He cleans up the mess and places the scraps in a bucket near a washbasin. _The chickens will appreciate it in the morning,_ he thinks to himself.

The lanterns dotted around the room are starting to die. He quenches the ones that are on their last drop of oil, making a mental note to refill them in the morning. With most of the light dimmed, he glances to the table. His fingers twitch at his side. He keeps a leather satchel bag hung up near where the other men keep their winter coats. It won’t be bothered there, as the high summer is now settling in. He rifles through the bag, pulling out a couple of sheets of paper. His inkwell and quill are on a nearby cupboard. Armed with everything, he moves to the table and sprawls it out on the table before him.

There’s a window opposite him: one that looks out on to the fields to the front of the villa. The moon is perched high in the sky. The fields are lit in brilliant white moonlight. Ink seeps into the page from his quill. Splodges of it end up staining the wood of the table. It’s no real loss – the table is worn around the edges and starting to splinter. No one is going to notice a couple of ink spills on it.

A couple of failed attempts, and a collection of crumpled up balls of paper, later and Will looks back towards the window again. The moon is hidden now: a fat, dark cloud has slunk down from the nearby hills to cover it. He tilts his head. Moonlight struggles to break through the cloud. Any time a small thinning of the cloud opens up, it thickens again: smothering the moon and her light.

Will blinks. He dips his quill again and sets about writing. Words come to him: for the first time in what seems to be weeks. Within a couple of minutes, he has a page almost half-full of ramblings. _This is fine_ , he thinks. _We can always go back and cross out what doesn’t belong_.

Just as easily as the words come, they leave again. At the corner of his eye, he catches movement. The quill in his hand stills. He turns his head just enough to spot it: a shadow at the doorway.

Faint lantern light reveals the count’s gaunt face before Will has a chance to jump out of his skin. “Forgive me.” The count puts his hand on his chest “I was just taking a walk.”

Will cocks his head. “A walk?” he asks slowly. “I wasn’t aware that _conti_ liked to wander into labourers’ housing as part of their _walks_.”

Even with the minimal lighting, Will can make out a smile ghosting the man’s lips. He gestures to the table. “What are you working on? If you don’t mind me asking?”

His writing is illegible. It’s frantic scribbles and crossed out lines. There had been a fleeting time when Will assumed that he wouldn’t be able to be a published writer: who would be able to read his works?

 _Printing presses will help with all of that_ , Bella told him when he was much younger.

Still, he sets his quill back in its ink jar. “Musings,” he answers simply.

“A writer.” Hannibal’s eyes run over the countless pages strewn on the table. When his eyes trail down towards the ground, and he spots the dozens of crumpled up balls of paper at Will’s feet, he huffs a small laugh. “A _true_ writer.”

A blush burns along his cheekbones. The man looks around, taking in the simple wooden framework of the kitchen/living area of the farmhouse. He looks comically out of place. The man – _Hannibal_ , Will keeps correcting himself – is draped in Florentine fashion. Or what he presumes is Florentine fashion. He’s dressed in a simple, but pressed, tunic tucked into dark coloured breeches. His boots have been shined recently. Over his tunic, to keep the chill of the night away, is a layered coat with a fur trim around the collar and sleeve cuffs. The colours are dark: black, maroon, and crimson.

“I was told that you prefer to live out here,” Hannibal says slowly, stepping inside the house. The floorboards creak underneath his boots. “I can understand the appeal. It’s much quieter out here than it is in the villa.”

Without a quill, Will’s hands fidget. He links his fingers together to stop them from tapping the tabletop. He watches the man’s face for some resemblance of disgust or contempt. He could only imagine what a count like Lecter must think of the arrangement.

But Will’s surprised to see that nothing like that shows.

“Jack won’t come with you.” He cracks his knuckles – a nervous tick that he’s had for years. “He’s...happy, here.”

Hannibal hums. He sets the pages aside in a neat pile, and pushes them back towards Will. “I feared as much.”

One page catches Hannibal’s attention: the page that Will’s arm partially covers. Even with the lighting as low as it is, Hannibal looks down, scrutinising it. Will glances between the page and the count for a moment. With tentative fingers, he slides it over towards the end of the table, towards Hannibal.

Hannibal gestures to the one lit lantern within the room. “Working in low light will destroy your eyesight,” he says simply, letting his eyes scan over Will’s scribbles. Now that he reflects on it, he isn’t quite sure what had come out of him. Staring into the back of the page, he silently hopes that it’ll burst into flame.

“The shadows in someone’s mind can come out during the night,” Will explains, keeping his eyes locked on the page cradled in Hannibal’s hands. “There’s no light to chase them away.”

Hannibal arches a pale eyebrow. “What about the moon? And the stars? Don’t they shine through the night?”

Will then glances off to one side of the room, but looks at nothing in particular. “I’ve always taught of the moon and stars being some way for God to keep light shining down on people. There is never a point in a person’s life when they are in complete darkness.”

Will looks back to Hannibal. This time, he does look at the man. Dark eyes meet his own. “Except for when they die, of course. But what use is that to anyone other than the artists like da Vinci? And you physicians.”

The page is returned to Will. Hannibal wears a smile – one brighter, and deeper set than anything Will has seen him wear so far. “That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” is all he says, before he puts his hands behind his back. A moment of quiet passes between the men. Outside, Will can hear a gust of wind sweep through the estate: it rustles the ivy on the walls outside. The horses in the nearby stable give a quiet whiney, before they quieten.

When Hannibal speaks, it’s quieter than before. “Have you heard of patronages, Will?”

Will shakes his head.

“Yes, well,” Hannibal scratches his chin. “They are controversial things, but in essence, someone from the higher classes of a city or domain can give a set amount of money to an artist in order for them to create their works.” He offers Will a small smile. “I would like to support your work, if you would allow it?”

Will frowns. “I would need to speak with the _Signor_ and _Signora_ -”

Hannibal lifts his head. “The Medici’s want the Crawfords in Florence anyway. If they do agree to come, you can travel with them once they have their matters seen to.”

There’s a lump forming and trying to lodge within his throat. “Do...do you mind if I ask what would this wage be?”

Hannibal huffs a small laugh. “Of course not. Every artist should ask what their wage is before signing on to something. That’s a matter for you and me to discuss, but usually, it would be five florins a month.”

Will’s eyes widen. “Five florins?” he breathes. The serf-born boy within him trembles. That’s half the wage of a fully-trained craftsman – a craftsman who would have been able to support his entire family on it. Although he’s lived on the estate for many years, money has always been a tender issue for him. He has some, stored away in a bank within the capital on his behalf. But money was how he got on to the estate in the first place-

“I don’t know how long I will need to convince Jack to come with me,” Hannibal says, his voice breaking Will out of his head. “But you have that long to come to a decision.”

 _Yes_ , the boy says, clawing to the forefront of Will’s mind.

 _What do you want in return? Just writings?_ a more mature voice sounds.

Will swallows. “I’ll...I’ll think about it.”

At that, Hannibal offers him one last small smile before he looks to the door of the farmhouse. “Well, it’s getting late.” He takes a couple of wandering steps towards the door. His gait is slow – as if waiting to see if Will calls out to stop him. He frowns. Why would he want to keep the _Conte_ here of all places?

Before he disappears completely from Will’s view, the count glances over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Will.”


	2. Chapter 2

It takes the _Conte_ and _Contessa_ three days to convince the Crawfords to return to Florence. When Will idles around the villa, he tries not to listen to the conversation occurring within Jack’s office. Well, _conversation_ wouldn’t be the right word for it. Will’s pretty certain that even the Ricci’s, their nearest neighbours who live almost a league away, would have been able to hear Jack hollering his protests to the two Lecter siblings.

But they eventually die out. That’s why Will finds himself hauling the last of his luggage out of the farmhouse and handing it to a porter. The man takes it and brings it to one of the wagons that will be travelling with them. It’s already laden with boxes, trunks, and baskets containing their essentials. The rest of their belongings – anything not hammered down into the foundations of the villa – will follow in a convoy in the coming weeks. Before being shepherded into the carriage, Jack had explained to one of his personal porters to keep the furniture within the villa: _I don’t know how long this will take, but I **am** returning to this house._

They leave the villa early one morning. It will take most of the daylight hours to reach the city; and that’s if they don’t hit any obstructions. The Lecters had apparently been on a small tour of the area, but assured them that the straight journey to the capital would only take a day or so.

Their carriage is the first to leave.

Their own one follows not long after.

Will watches the scenery pass. For an hour or so, all there is are fields with long lines of grapevines. Labourers are already out, quickly harvesting the grapes before they burn. It’s going to be different: living within the capital. His fingers twitch. He would be able to write, and perhaps the city would offer some shred of inspiration to get something completed, but he’ll miss being able to leave his desk and wander through the vineyards or the countryside. The city, even though sprawling, seems closed-off.

Then he’ll have to contend with the city’s elite.

“Hannibal offered you a patronage?” Bella asks, dusting a fan over her face. The midday sun has perched itself high in the sky, and there’s not a cloud in sight.

Will doesn’t take his eyes off of the fields, but he does nod. The roads have recently been repaved, so moving through the countryside is easier than Will first thought. Their driver lilts a mumbled song to himself: accented by the occasional whinny or nicker from a horse.

Jack glances over to them, but promptly looks away. Will turns back just in time to notice how the man’s jaw clenches.  He’s biting down on a remark: whether it’s about Hannibal, the patronage, or he’s still sulking about returning to the capital, Will isn’t sure. But he does know that he hasn’t heard the last of it. His fingers twitch on his thigh.

Bella rests her temple against the carriage’s wall: a light breeze sweeps inside. “He must think very highly of your work if he’s willing to offer you a patronage after one day of knowing him,” she comments.

Will’s fingers fidget with a fraying thread from his tunic. “We spoke for a bit. He read something I had been working on: he seemed to like it.”

Bella’s eyebrows climb towards her hairline. “Oh? That’s excellent, Will! Well done.”

She’s never been short of praises. Even in the days where he sat through frugal tutoring sessions with her, she still radiated at him whenever his script or mathematics turned out correct. He quells a blush that starts to creep up along his neck. “Maybe with the _Conte_ ’s help, I can get published? And make some money for myself.”

Bella’s smile grows. “That would be perfect. I know how much you want to put something out into the world.”

She turns to her husband. “Isn’t that wonderful, Jack?”

There’s a muttered _hmm_ as a response, and with that, the conversation dies out.

 

* * *

 

 

“I do like the countryside,” Mischa says, peering out the carriage window to the passing fields. She glances over to her brother, gaze hardening. “Shame if it were to be one of our last jaunts into it.”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow. The journey so far had been quiet: save for their old diver who would call back to the others within the convoy of carriages. It was only a matter of time before his sharp-tongued little sister would start to stoke the fire. “How so?” he asks.

A small frown creases along her brow. “Don’t feign ignorance with me, _brolis_.” Her fan snaps shut with a quick and effortless flick of her wrist. She leans forward, lowering her voice. Even with their deafened driver unable to hear, their native tongue flows out of her. “ _If that tired, old captain figures it out-”_

Hannibal returns his own hard stare towards her. “ _I refuse to be caught, sister_. _You know that._ ”

Her fan unfurls again. Although the fire within her quells slightly, it’s still warm. The next time she speaks, her voice is kinder. The conversation between them would seem nothing more than a polite one between siblings – had the eavesdropped not understood a word of their mother tongue. “ _I don’t understand why you told the captain the truth_ ,” she says. “ _Why not tell him the Medici’s want to move them further afield? I’m sure one of Papa’s old cottages within the Duchy would have suited them just fine_.”

“ _And then I would have to contend with the Medici’s_ ,” Hannibal lilts, crossing one leg over the other. “ _Then what, sister? Am I to try and convince the Magnificent that his favourite old captain and his wife had vanished with the wind?”_

“ _You have never been afraid of the Medici’s_ ,” she laughs – a light, airy sort of thing. The bankers that rule the city are just that – bankers. Their own family know the kind well: and how to work with them.

But her smile changes. It turns into one he would often see the sculptors moulding across Medusa’s face. “ _Or is it because of that ward? Were you so entranced by him that you had forgotten why we had come to the Crawford’s in the first place?”_

Hannibal regards her for a moment. “ _You seem quite fond of him too, little sister._ ”

“ _I am, brother. He’s an odd sort – and I have a special place in my heart for the right type of odd sorts._ ” She takes a moment to fan herself. The air outside is thickening with heat. Even though the carriage moves at a comfortable pace, and the wind breezing in through the opened window is cool, it’s still not enough.

“ _How will your other concubines feel about you taking a new one, I wonder_?”

“Mischa.”

A feral smile crosses her face, but she drops the conversation.

Hannibal sighs. Anyone who would be as bold to poke at the _Conte_ Lecter would eventually find themselves displayed outside a church or fountain within the capital. He’s rid himself of people over less.

But this is his sister: the last member of their family, and the one last connection he has to their home.

“I’m sure he’ll fit in just fine,” is the last thing Mischa says. To his surprise, it’s said with a gentle, genuine voice; holding no amount of mirth behind it.

If she really is quite fond of the ward, then it will be a first. Will Graham will find himself being the first and only of Hannibal’s protégés to be liked by his sister.    

 

* * *

 

 

The capital is everything Will expected it to be. The city, he figures out, is layered in concentric circles: as their carriages enter through the main gates, they first pass through some of the poorer slums within the city. It’s still close enough to the outside farmland for farmers and workers. Will spots a couple of them returning; hauling heavy fruit-laden baskets on the backs. Children run wildly through the streets, without a care in the world. Some chase a leather ball, while others chase them. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lip. He remembers vaguely running through the vineyards at the estate. The long, unbroken lines of grapevines made for excellent running tracks. By the time he would get to the bottom of the field, he would hop into the next line, and run back up again.

When they drive through the presumably _middle-class_ part of the city, he’s surprised to see just how many craftsmen have packed themselves into the district: tailor shops sit squashed between farriers and butchers. But none of them seems to mind.

 _Of course they wouldn’t_ , Will thinks, as he spots a well-dressed woman and her company leave the tailors with a basket laden with freshly cut fabrics. _Not with the amount of florins that must be flowing through them._

The centre of the city seems like another world. He doesn’t have to have anyone tell him that this is the elite’s district: impeccably dressed men and their wives stroll around, followed closely by either their house staff or guards. It’s easy to distinguish the hired guards. The ones that trail after couples or a group of women are dressed in simple, civilian clothing: with only an assortment of leather armour protecting them. When Will sees the state guards, they stand out. They march in groups, seamlessly moving through the streets and parting crowds as though the people were the waters of the Red Sea. They are all dressed in a uniform: coloured with the Medici house colours and sporting their familial crest on the breastplate. 

Will fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve. It’s all so different from the estate. There’s a small town near the Crawford’s villa – small enough not to be a problem to govern, but large enough to home any of the labourers on the lands surrounding it. When they eventually stop, it’s outside one of the sandstone townhouses that line the streets of the wealthier districts. Jack and Bella step out, examining the house in front of them. There’s a strange familiarity in their eyes – something Will has never seen before.

“Right then,” Jack sighs, turning just as a porter approaches him. “We only have a couple of hours of sunlight left. Let the essentials in first.”

Bella stays by Will’s side, gently holding his arm in hers. “You know,” she says quietly, “no one is going to force you to stay in your patron’s home. You could stay here, with us.”

Will offers her a small smile. Her eyes have always been kind; but she’s looking at him now as if he was still that eight-year-old that was shoved into their foyer all those years ago. “I will be alright,” he assures her, placing his hand on her forearm.

It’s not enough for her to let go of him. They wait for a moment, watching house staff flood out of the house and help the porters with moving everything in.

Will glances over his shoulder. The Lecter’s carriage has stopped too.

After a moment, Jack wanders over to them both. He offers Bella an arm. “I will call to the Lecter’s house tomorrow morning,” he tells Will. These are the first words Jack has spoken to him since they left the estate. His expression is hard, unreadable: no matter how hard Will tries to scrutinise it. He sets his jaw. “You’re living in their house, under Hannibal’s patronage, so you better behave yourself. Understood?”

The child who spent summer days tracking mud and dust through the estate is long gone.

Will hasn’t been a problem to the Crawfords in _years_. Still, he nods. “Yes, sir.”

Will looks around. The buildings are tall: stretching upwards towards the sky, and blocking out the sun. And they’re all pressed against each other. Every so often, they break off: leading down small alleys and laneways. That’s where Will can find the only shadows in a city that’s being washed in light.

“I know it will take some time to adjust.”

Will looks over his shoulder to see Hannibal walking towards him. His hands are clasped behind his back. Although he looked so out of place in Will’s farmhouse, he blends in perfectly with the city surrounding them.

Hannibal gestures towards the carriages. “Uncle Jack is right: the sun will be gone in a few hours. We need to get you settled.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Lecter’s house is hidden – something Will didn’t even think possible with the layout of the city. The gates stand between two sandstone townhouses, and a path leads inside. It’s sheltered by overhanging trees: offering some cool shade from the sun overhead. The trees, though, obstruct the view of most of the house. The slate-tiled roof peaks out over them, caught in the sun’s beams, but that’s all Will can make out.

The drivers park the carriage outside. As soon as they’ve stepped down from their seats, Hannibal’s own house staff appears to start unloading his things.  

Hannibal inclines his head. “Come.” He leads Will towards the house. With each step he takes towards it, he can feel it starting to grow in size, looming over him. It has such a dark presence, even though the sandstone catches the last of the fading light and still shines like gold.

Will’s skin prickles.

The house itself seems too big for the city: its three stories, from what Will can tell from the outside, with a small staircase leading up to it. It’s as if the Crawford estate had been plucked from the ground of the countryside, and jammed into the middle of Florence.

Inside is as lavish as Will expected it to be. Paintings hang from the walls. Statues as tall as ordinary men stand in between the gaps of paintings: looking out into the foyer. Their eyes seem to focus on Will and follow his movements as he takes a couple of tentative steps into the house. A large staircase leads up to the next story of the house, and several hallways lead out from the foyer. Will follows one of them: heading towards the back of the house. He passes a dining room, kitchen, an office-like room where the walls are lined with shelves stacked with books. He’ll explore within the coming days.  For now, though, he’s aware of both Lecter siblings trailing behind him.

A chill wracks up through his spine. It’s much cooler inside the house than it is out in the city. Windows have been opened by porters. A couple of doors towards the back of the house are open. Will manages to catch a glimpse of what’s outside – a small courtyard with some stone benches along the sides. It’s sheltered slightly, like the courtyards of abbeys and monasteries, but towards the wall, separating this house from the neighbour’s, is a fountain.

He tilts his head. He walks outside, marvelling at the intricate gargoyle that is the spout of the fountain. The lips of the creatures are curled back in a snarl.

“Your room should be ready,” Hannibal comments idly, keeping some distance from Will. “My protégés take one side of the top floor. My sister and I take the other.”

A small frown creases Will’s brow. He looks away from the gargoyle. “How many protégés do you have?”

Mischa glances between the two men. She eventually turns on her heel, walking back into the house.  

“Three,” Hannibal answers. “Four, including you.”

“And they all live here?”

“It’s a large house,” he shrugs a shoulder. “Far too large for my sister and I to occupy alone.”

There it is. Something that has been silently stalking through the back of Will’s mind ever since the _Conte_ arrived at the estate: Where is his wife? His children? Surely the dames and noblewomen of Florence, and other states outside of it, would have spent years throwing themselves or their eligible daughters his way.

The same he thinks for his sister. Why hasn’t she been married off yet? He can understand why she might live with Hannibal; if their father is dead, and all of his brothers, then Hannibal is the new patriarch. But in all the gossip that he’s heard about concerning the Lecter siblings, not once has he ever heard anything about spouses.

The sky above is starting to streak with oranges and red. The sun is leaving. He nods to the door leading back into the house. “Come, I’ll show you where you will be staying.”

It’s his turn to follow Hannibal through the house. They wordlessly walk up the stairs. The middle floor of the house is just as decorated as the floor below. The top floor, he’s pleasantly surprised, isn’t. There are a couple of small tables pushed against the wall, and some artwork hangs on the walls. But largely, the top floor is empty.

Four doors line this part of the landing. Three of them are locked shut, with the last door at the end of the hallway left slightly ajar.  

“Odd. They must still be in their studios across town,” Hannibal notes, looking to each of the closed doors. “You may acquire one of your own, in time. But for now, I’m sure that your room will be adequate enough to work in.”

The room is the last in the hallway. It is larger than the one he had on the Crawford estate, but still small enough to accommodate the others on this side of the landing. It’s furnished similarly to the rest of the house: dark mahogany wood seems so stark against the bright orange evening light coming in. A desk sits to one side of the room, near a window that looks out on to the city. It already has a stack of books sitting on a small shelf above it: Dante, Alberti, Bruni. He tilts his head. Books like these never made it outside of the city. They certainly never reached the estate. 

“Are you hungry?”

Will glances over his shoulder. Hannibal stands motionless at the door, arms clasped behind his back. Will’s fingers fidget. “A little bit,” he answers.

Hannibal merely nods. “I will have someone send you up something.”

“Thank you.”

He wanders over to the desk. It’s already equipped with sheets of paper, ink wells, and quills. Will brushes his fingertips through the feathered end of one quill. “Did your staff know you were taking another protégé?”

Hannibal watches him. His eyes haven’t left him once since stepping inside the house. Will has either been trailed by the man, or has trailed him himself. Hannibal lets loose a small breathy sigh. “One of my previous protégés owned this room for a time.”

Will frowns lightly. “Owned? Where is he now?” Protégés don’t just walk out of contracts like these. The pay is too good: and they’ll have a comfortable roof over their head. That’s what Will has heard whispered out of the capital, anyway. How anyone could just stand and leave, he has no idea.

The other man shrugs a shoulder. “She’s under the guidance of someone else now.”

 _She_. Will tries not to let the look of surprise show on his face.

But something must flash because Hannibal’s smile only grows. “A very capable woman called Alana Bloom,” he says, glancing over to one side of the room: towards the desk. “She felt that she could work better under someone else, so I let her go.”

There’s a small pause. In amongst the silence, Will takes the time to take in the smaller details of the room. It’s generic. Large beams of wood line the ceiling, but are painted white, catching the last of the afternoon light that is trying to escape from the city. The rest of the furniture is mundane: all made of reddish wood, there are two cabinets at either side of the bed. The bed itself is a bit grander than the one he had at home, but isn’t one of those large, decadent poster beds that the elite seem so keen on owning.

“You’ll meet them eventually,” Hannibal eventually concedes. “Florence is a small city, and the pool of patrons and elites is even smaller.”

The thought of it makes bile crawl up his throat. It’s a pay-off, he supposes. He gets paid to create his works, to get them released into the wilds; and he’ll have to meet other patrons and their protégés and explain why his work is more impressive than theirs.

 _Peacocking_ , is all that settles in Will’s mind.

Hannibal bows his head. “We will speak more tomorrow about the smaller details of your stay here, but I will leave you to get settled.”

Just over Hannibal’s shoulder, Will spots one of his porters carrying his travel bags. Hannibal steps to the side and the man enters, placing the bags at the foot of the bed. Will holds up his hand. “It’s alright: I can unpack by myself.”

It’s apparently not a Florentine thing to say. The porter eyes him curiously for a moment. He looks back over to Hannibal. He waves his hand. “Fetch the rest of Will’s things,” he orders.

When Hannibal leaves, the room seems slightly bigger. He stands in the middle of it, taking in everything. The bed has been freshly made: there’s a faint smell of lavender in the air. A dozen or so candles sit wrapped by the bedside table, with a set of matches and wicks. Even though the room had been used by someone else, everything still seems so clean and prepared. Maybe the staff thought he would find another writer eventually – someone else to occupy some space the vast house offers.

There’s a short rap on the door.

Will barley has any time to acknowledge the sound, let alone respond to it, before the door is being opened, and a man steps through with a tray. It isn’t the porter – or anyone Will has seen fleetingly within the house since entering it.

The man is dressed well: a dark leather jacket, buttons done up, with the collar of a white dress shirt clinging to his neck.

“The _maestro_ said that you would like something to eat,” the man says. His voice even sounds different from the others.

“Forgive me,” Will says, regarding the man enter the room, “but you don’t seem like a porter.”

The man throws a quick glance over towards Will. He’s silent for a moment before he sets the tray on the bedside table. “No, I’m not,” he eventually answers. A smile curls along the man’s thin lips. “I arrived home just in time to hear the staff gossiping about the _maestro’s_ newest addition to the house. And I got curious: I wanted to see what it was that he found while out in the wilds.”

 A frown creases along Will’s brow.

The man laughs – a lilting, soft thing. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure the gruff, old captain held a civilised homestead.”

The man brushes his hands on his breeches. “Matthew.” The man extends his hand. “Matthew Brown.”

Will tentatively shakes hands. “Are...Are you one of-?”

Matthew nods. He turns slightly and gestures vaguely down the hall. “I’ve been living here for a couple of years.”

“And, what do you do?”

Matthew raises one of his hands. It’s only then Will notices small, dried flecks of paint smudged across the man’s fingers and wrist.

The man’s smile only grows. It’s not like the ones he’s been shown by people so far. There’s something wrong with this one: something venomous.

“Come and join us for breakfast in the morning, Will.” The man blindly reaches for the handle of the door. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”

 _Hannibal says he has three – four, including him_. He can only imagine what the other two must be like: or what they do.

Matthew bows his head slightly. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodnight, Will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [THIS POST](https://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/post/181474925746/byk23-granpappy-winchester) on Tumblr. Listen, I'm a simple woman: I see someone suggesting a Hannigram AU set in the Renaissance, a time period that I've studied for years, and I run with it. I promised that I would write this ages ago, but I wanted to get it all done...then I got impatient and here we are. It's still so far from being done, but have some of this absolute mess.
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> [PINTEREST BOARD](https://www.pinterest.ie/sarahkwrites/noli-timere-ao3/)
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> Comments & Kudos gladly welcomed! Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com


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